Illustrated
by Innominato
Summary: Luke's thoughts written in a series of entries. Mild Slash
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimers: Percy Jackson and The Olympians and its characters belong to Rick Riordan, and not me. _

* * *

Journal Entry, #29.12.

* * *

It is hard to say which comes first, infatuation or love. That love may come first than infatuation is incorrect; such that the one _infatuated_ with the other may fall in _love_ with the other only after the stage of infatuation. Only when past the stage of infatuation can the normal attributes associated with love such as understanding come.

Yet the statement that infatuation always comes before love is, too, incorrect—as love does not come easily with first sight. Be it then that obsession with a particular subject leads to eventual love?

Many answers, many different interpretations, bringing forth to mind the question, "Which comes first, the chicken or the egg?"

Let me not then, with any admissions of guilt or regret, admit the following.

In complete truth, it's hard to say which came first for me, as both seem equally probable.

Yet I do not believe in romanticised thoughts like "love at first sight". It's an idea that's too unrealistic, after all, for someone like me.

As it is, therefore, it's most likely the former.

Mindless obsession then, you ask?

I won't begrudge you the answer; neither shall I willingly relinquish it. It is, like always, a secret you have to find out yourself.

The answer is always in our own hearts, be it called instinct or other names. It's only a matter of acceptance. We often deny the answer already in our knowledge, feigning ignorance. Thus, it's a matter of whether the real answer is accepted or not.

Do you accept the answer?

I do not intend to hear your reply; nor do I expect one. In all honesty, I never intend you to read this at all. Still, it won't be a surprise if you do, given the innate curiosity all beings naturally have.

Love is ambivalent. And infatuation unfathomable.

But perhaps the mystery of it all, is you.

* * *

A/N: Well? Comments please. And thanks to Fanless for agreeing to beta this for me! =D (And yes, this is slash. Any clues to who the people are?)


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimers: Percy Jackson and The Olympians and its characters belong to Rick Riordan, and not me. _

* * *

Journal Entry #13.04

* * *

The quintessence of one's soul is its own proof of existence. In creating and fabricating that proof, one has to admit one's own existence first.

The sea ripples with every movement that a fish makes. It is constantly moving and swimming, asserting its own existence, carving, etching every evidence into the watery depths that it is existing, living.

The lion roars and savages apart the weak prey; It slashes, tears apart, and sinks its fangs into it. The searing pain that the prey feels is the proof of existence of the lion. Its death is the evidence that the lion has lived; it has existed.

What is_ my_ proof of existence?

If one denies that one's actions are but illusionary, and that those features in the mirror is but a mirage, then is one in all truth non-existent?

Or when one denies one's very own being, one's very own blood; Have I existed?

The desire to be remembered by others is baffling. Why have others cry at the unforgiving cold stone that's supposed to be a piece of proof that you've existed?

The fallen tears are merely proof that your existence has caused pain to others at some point.

And then at the end of it all, regret is an long-forgotten commodity. I daren't regret, because looking back will never be for me. The present is what I have only managed to grasp in my hands.

Let me fall alone, forgotten, denied of an existence. I will not accept any hands that deign to accept my own contradicting existence. To be patronized, to be taken for something I'm not...

I'd rather be denied, rejected.

But a small wisp of what's left in me—hope? Wish? Desire?

It's only a justification, a self-convincing truth, that it is all but my careless wishes; the steps spiraling downwards into a falling descent appeals to me more, much more.

I want my existence to be in your memory.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to those who are reading and reviewing my story! Especially Fanless who has once again agreed to beta for this chapter. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimers: Percy Jackson and The Olympians and its characters belong to Rick Riordan, and not me. _

* * *

Journal Entry #10.06

* * *

What is it that defines a person as a human being? Is it through his actions, his thoughts, or even what he feels?

The answers seem to elude me even now, as I am walking on this endless path.

But where does this path lead?

Again, it escapes me. Maybe to the destruction of the world as we know it, to inferno, to _chaos. _

Perhaps you might know; you always seem able to answer what I couldn't. To find meaning in things that I never could have. But you're not here now, and now I can only do that on my own.

Maybe it is the ability to love, to hate, to smile, to laugh; then in which case, in a twisted forlorn sort of way, I am still human. Because compared to others, the hatred that consumes me is unrelenting, fiercer, burning even more than the fires in the underworld.

There are many questions that are running through my head now; burning and scorching. Etching themselves into the deepest of my mind, never able to recieve a answer.

Human... was a word made up by our own kind. Then in a sense, perhaps we are all just being hypocritical. How is it that we are able to judge others for not being _humane, _if the very definition, the meaning of the word was made up by us?

An animal could have its own word, a name for us, attached with its meanings and definitions for us afterall.

We claim superiority over the uncivilised, mindless creatures that have no thinking will, at least not like us. That simple fact of daily life reveals much more then what could ever have. Aren't we all like the Titans then? Ursurping our claim, and destroying the once smooth green plains and dark forests.

I don't trust any answers that are not written by me; because at the end of it all, answers are merely what a person thinks, what he feels is right.

Doubt is nothing more then a maze which we are lost in. And answers; the very being that we are made up of, like the unreachable stars; like the unreachable ends of the depths of the answers, the hidden truths, _the ocean depths_ are forever unreachable, at the end of the endless maze.

I used to search for a way to get out of that maze, to find solutions to what I thought was, and still is important.

But now... I don't need answers anymore.

I'm still alive, and that's all that matters.

I think, at least, that's one answer that I have managed to steal from you.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimers: Percy Jackson and The Olympians and its characters belong to Rick Riordan, and not me. _

* * *

Journal Entry, #2.12.

* * *

When people say that they keep diaries or journals to preserve memories, do they mean writing down every single detail of their lives? To me, doing so would only merely cheapen the myriad, brilliant whirl of thoughts and feelings of daily life. How would you describe thatsingle fleeting moment when you catch a stranger's eyes and share a smile? Or when you catch a tiny wisp of happiness when you see your friends?

Words cannot explain those feelings fully. They can only serve as a marker of those memories, a camera capturing that moment but never able to relive that few seconds again. I gave up my chance of being able to experience those precious but understated times long ago, for something that I deemed more important. Till now, I had no doubt that I had made the right decision.

_Yet... _

Maybe those simple words are already enough to remind us in our twilight years, of what has been, of what could have been. To bring back fond,hated,sad snippets of the times that we have lived. In my case... perhaps till the end of forever.

One always think of the sentence, "It is the memories, thoughts and feelings that make up a soul, that makes up who we are." Without our memories, we are nothing. Then perhaps, by attempting to capture those instants, we can hope to preserve those gems that we have created through our own hands.

Meticulously scribbling down every single thought, feeling, everything that we do leaves behind only the mere surface of what we are, of what we were. Yet, it is only through these that we can recall how we led our daily lives. Who can say that they can remember every detail of what we didfor ten years or more?

The human mind only captures significant moments- graduation day, a anniversary, a smile shadowed by the lingering bright orange glow of the sun rays...

Without these little characteristics we are nothing. Yet why is it that we can only remember the major ones?

Rememberance has only a limited capacity like everything else.

And forgetting scares me more than anything else.

* * *

A/N: As usual, please review and let me know what you think! They are a sort of gauge to let the author know whether it's worth continuing the story afterall. :)


End file.
